


the only lights here are made

by sapphire2309



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seducing a Russian spy takes a little effort. (And a lot of faith that she isn't about to turn around and kill you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheScribblingArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScribblingArtist/gifts).



> Title from If Things Were Perfect by Moby.  
> I hope you enjoy the fic!!! I wrote it between the hours of 11 pm and 5 am (because what is more like me than procrastinating till the absolute last minute?), so it's probably more than a little nuts, but I hope it's okay!!!

Peggy's standing, gun in hand, at the door of an empty room.

That's not good at all. Dottie should have been in that room. She followed - all right, no, _tracked_ \- Dottie to this room. It took a fair amount of skill, and with things like these, she's rarely-

The gun disappears, no, is taken (she turns and sees a hand, red nail paint and _her gun_ ) her backup weapon, when she reaches for it, is mysteriously missing, and before she can move out of reach, there's a switchblade casually lying at her throat and an arm around her waist holding her flush against the body of the very person she was pursuing.

She's rarely wrong. _Rarely_.

That, or she hasn't ventured out into the field in far too long.

"You've softened, Peg," Dottie says, a trace of... was that _melancholy_ in her voice? What in the world did Dottie have to be melancholy about at this particular moment? Peggy's quite positive that she's the only one in this building with thoughts of the sort that provoke melancholia. A rather safe assumption, given that the building's abandoned and the only other person in it is holding her at knifepoint.

And apparently, soliloquizing.

"There was a time, you know, when I would have considered you a worthy adversary. But now the only reason I haven't killed you already is the way you fought me twenty years ago."

"Not all of us age as well as you have," Peggy responds.

Peggy's been following Dottie's light but firm footprint in this cold war ever since she knew it was there. Before, she led the chase, even got close a few times. Now, all she can do is look at surveillance pictures and glance through case files and curse the fools on Dottie's case for not knowing her as well as she does.

(Which may not amount to much, granted, given her current position.)

And is it all Peggy's imagination, or has Dottie not softened at all? In the surveillance photos, she's barely aged, and now, from what she can feel (warmth, mostly, warmth and softness and one strong arm, still securing her at the waist), Dottie's still far more deadly than the knife she's holding.

"It's been a while," Dottie says.

The honey that's been dripping luxuriously from Dottie's lips since the conversation started is about to reach Peggy's nose. (Dottie has the combined advantage of height and foreknowledge). Nevertheless, Peggy finds the breath to reply, "Yes, it's been quite a number of years since we last met."

"Wouldn't call this a meeting, Peg," Dottie says softly, straight into her ear, just as the knife digs as deep as it can without breaking skin and Peggy's breath slips from her control, just a little exhale, but it probably tells Dottie all that she needs to know.

Peggy stills the fear jittering its way through her bones. She has no time for it now. It'll have to wait for later.

"It's a shame you ditched that boy with the cane for his ex. He's quite an excellent fighter, even today, I hear, and I can't imagine that a nurse could come to your rescue."

"She has, actually, more than once," Peggy informs Dottie in the coldest tone she can muster _(she knows who I'm dating, not even SHIELD knows who I'm dating)_. "And I don't need rescuing. I'm not here to arrest you, Dottie."

"And I believe you completely, of course." 

"I don't have my SHIELD credentials or handcuffs. I came here to talk."

"About what?"

Peggy takes a deep breath. It's not easy when just the feeling of Dottie's breath on the side of her neck puts her in danger of falling over. Well, that or the rather potent combination of coffee and a rather suspicious energy drink that's kept her going for the past two and a half days.

"No one knows when this war will end, Dottie, or how. But you've done a fairly excellent job of staying unknown and invisible. You could get out."

"Are you offering to help? Because that's sweet, Peg, but I think I'll pass."

"Dottie-"

"Let's move on to _murder_ ," she says gleefully.

"That's... quite thrilling, but I'd really rather not, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I do," Dottie says as she loosens the arm holding Peggy against her (it's _such a relief_ , she hadn't even realized how much effort she was putting into staying focused, she can  _breathe_. And then she's spinning, no, twirling is more accurate, or it would be if she was dancing (which she is most decidedly  _not,_ dear _God,_ she needs to focus) and, for the first time today, she sees Dottie's face, and then she _can't_ breathe.

Grainy surveillance photographs can't even begin to hold a candle to the reality. 

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" Peggy asks as she steps away reflexively, only to find herself stopped by Dottie's hands, vise-like, on her hips.

"Not today, Peg."

And then Dottie kisses her. Kisses her, with tongue, tantalizing and warm and downright romantic, and by the time she figures out how that damn tongue snuck into her mouth anyway (her mouth must have fallen open in surprise, and Dottie definitely took advantage), her vision is greying out at the edges, and Dottie's lowering her gently onto the floor. 

Damned Sweet Dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: my favorite college experience is when i had a 7am class and the kid next to me literally poured a monster energy drink into his coffee said “i’m going to die” and drank the whole thing  
> (like, there's both things there. the coffee and the energy drink. so sort of? ahhhhhhh.)


	2. Death Wish

"There's a deadly Russian spy on our couch."

"Well, yes."

"She could kill us at any moment."

"If she wanted to, but I don't think-"

"You're in love with her and you think she's in love with you."

"That... happens to be the case."

Violet leans heavily against the kitchen counter.

"Violet..." Peggy tries, in as soothing a tone as she can manage

"I didn't think this would really happen," she says a little faintly. "I mean, we talked about this, about _her_ , and the fact that if she ever went straight, you'd probably jump her bones, but that was at least a year ago? And I know you met her that day - thanks, by the way, for the heads up before you went and nearly got yourself  _killed_ \- but she's _on our couch,_ Peggy. _Our couch._ "

Peggy opens her mouth to talk, but then closes it. Then opens it again. "Would you prefer it if she occupied the armchair?"

"Do you have a _death wish?"_

"I'm just trying to find options. I could ask her to leave-"

"Please don't."

"Ask her to leave?"

"Try to find options. They're terrible, all of them."

"We have to do  _something._ "

Violet pauses and bites her lip. "How certain are you that she won't kill me?"

"Eighty percent. No, wait, uh... seventy five? I'm not entirely certain, Violet, she's rather unpredictable-"

"Eighty sounds okay," Violet says.

"Violet, if you think I'm going to  _let you-_ "

She ignores Peggy and steps out of the kitchen with her brightest smile on her face. It helps that she still has her uniform on, makes it feel like just another day at the job. (Also helpful is the evident abdominal injury. If only she could take off the bandage.) 

She makes no apologies for leaving Peggy fretful and anxious in the kitchen.

"You must be Dottie Underwood."

"That's the name Peggy knows me by."

"I'm-"

"Violet, yes. I'm aware. Peggy's trying to hover at us through a wall, isn't she?" 

"Oh, absolutely." Violet perches herself awkwardly on the very edge of the armchair opposite the couch Dottie's sprawled on. 

There's not a hint of pain in either Dottie's face or her posture. She wonders how. It should be almost impossible to hide that amount of pain. 

Violet clears her throat. "Why are you here, can I ask?"

Dottie shrugs. "It's cold outside," she says, just as Peggy bursts out of the kitchen, her hair in complete disarray, the nail of her ring finger clasped firmly by her teeth.

Then her eyes widen. "I'm s- did you just say it's cold outside?" Peggy asks.

Dottie nods slowly. 

Peggy's eyes suddenly go very bright. 

"I'll just..." Violet leaves that half sentence dangling  and quietly backs away into a little hallway that runs by the side of the living room.

She doesn't expect to hear conversation at all, let alone for ten straight minutes. Strangely enough, that's what convinces her even faster than Peggy's complete honesty with her about this. Peggy's thinking this through, not just rushing into it. 

(Still, it comes as something of a relief when the murmur of conversation ceases and the soft sound of kissing begins. Peggy's human.)

Jealousy floods her chest all of a sudden. She wants all of Peggy, especially her human moments - they're so few and far between. She doesn't want to share. 

But she can't split Peggy in half either. And then again, Dottie  _is_ the one who's showed her more of this side of Peggy in ten minutes than she's seen in two years.

So when Peggy kisses her, later that night, while Dottie takes up temporary residence on their couch, she pretends she sees the Peggy of that afternoon - just a little less put together, a little more free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I want all of it. Your sleepy mumbling. Your drunken embarrassment. Your silly faces. Your anger. Your dance moves. Your anxiety. Your apologies. Your sadness. Your stern looks. Your claustrophobia. Your exasperated tone. Your frustrations. Your past. I want all of it. I want all of you.  
> (a little bit? maybe? ahhhhhhh.)


	3. Master Plan

When Violet returns home to find an injured Dottie on her couch _(on her couch)_  for the third day in a row, she throws her hat at her.

Of course, Dottie dodges it, and of course, she'll end up sitting on the end of the hat with the pin eventually. She's tempted to just go plonk on that side of the sofa and have done with it. Instead, she empties a quarter of her medicine cabinet onto the coffee table and stitches up yet another mysterious series of injuries.

"When did I become team medic?" she grumbles. "And how do you get injured so often?

"It's called betraying your country," Dottie says softly.

"Not _all_ these injuries, though?"

Dottie just looks at her.

"Right. Superspy. Secrets and lies and all that."

"More secrets than lies. More white lies than black."

"Right." She goes back to suturing.

She would have liked to continue suturing until all the wounds were closed, but people don't always get what they want. And this time, the unwanted thing came in the form of a rather inconvenient burglar, who quite shortly found himself attached to the wallpaper by several knives through his clothing. 

"Should I be fixing him too?" Violet asks tentatively.

"No," Dottie replies shortly.

"You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

"No."

"I can't explain that to the police. I can't throw like that."

"No."

"SHIELD might show up. Then we'll really be in trouble."

She thinks she hears the beginnings of a no.

"So what now?"

"We run like hell," Dottie says matter-of-factly.

"Sounds like a plan." Violet hitches up her skirt and makes a break for it through a window. She presumes that Dottie's following her. Can't tell, really, what with the lightfootedness of a superspy to account for.

They probably won't get very far, and when Peggy finds them, they'll work out some lie that keeps Dottie safe, but for now, yes, running seems to be the best option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: literally just been introduced to hunting oh god this person stabbed something and now they want me to help!au  
> (sort of? i think? ahhhhhhh.)


	4. Last Straw

Dottie is the best with knives. (She may have sliced the tip of her finger off while dicing onions, but that's irrelevant.) So naturally, she and her considerable skills should be helping out in the kitchen, not cooling their heels on the sofa.

The problem is, every time she tries to say, "Are you chopping bell peppers or falling asleep on the job?" or "Honestly, your grandmother's faster than that," or "I can drain a goddamn pot of pasta, at least," someone cuts her off with a line from the recipe. Or a cheerful little something. Or a song.

This is unfair. It's torture. It's not to be  _borne_. The first bite is not enough compensation for being benched like a  _child._

(However, she can, and does, make do with the first bite, two kisses, and a foot massage.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine your ot3 cooking a risky meal that requires a lot of concentration but one member has already cut their finger and is sent to the couch sulking so they won’t bleed everywhere. They get the first official bite of the meal as compensation.  
> (I DID THIS ONE PROPERLY LET'S CELEBRATE WHEEEEEEE!!!)  
> (...but it's minuscule.)  
> (at least it follows the prompt?)


End file.
